Time's Echo: A CHRONOS Files Novella (8 page)

I pull my focus back to the table
and the woman who's speaking—Jeanine, the regional templar for Asia. She's a
slightly darker and plumper version of Saul.

"—we'll capitalize on seven
different prophecies in the Book that refer to the region, most notably the
Tohoku tsunami, which reads, 'In the year two thousand ten and one, the
Nanbu
clan must seek higher ground when Tohoku shakes the
ground and the waters swallow the earth and all
th
—.'"

"Use caution on that
one," Saul says. "Pushing too hard prior to the tsunami could have a
lot of impact on population size. We don't want to make too many waves."

There's a pause, and then Simon
laughs and most of the table joins him. Prudence just lifts an eyebrow—not sure
if she realizes Saul's comment is in horrid taste or if she's just too pissed
at Saul to give him any sort of support.

"All jokes aside," Saul
says, "I'm quite serious on that point. No advance warning outside of the
inner circle and play it
carefully
. I left that prophecy a bit vague on
purpose. I doubt most people, even in Japan, will connect a clan from the 1400s
with the territory they ruled. This way you avoid everyone wondering why you
didn't caution them—it was a matter of interpretation, after all—and you can
still claim that, in retrospect, it's a clear warning." His eyes narrow as
he looks over at Prudence. "Let me guess. You see things
differently."

Pru is silent for about two beats,
and when she finally answers, it's directed to Jeanine, not Saul. "You
might want to funnel some additional resources into the rescue and relief
funds, as penance for our failure to interpret the scripture in time.
In order to avoid seeming callous or cold."
Her eyes
lock onto Saul's with the last words. "More flies with honey…"

"
Than
with vinegar, yes.
I'm sure we've all heard that one. Use your best judgment,
Jeanine."

Jeanine face grows pale as she
takes her seat. Everyone in the room knows that
use your best judgment
is Saul-speak for
do it my way.
So, no matter what Jeanine does,
someone's gonna be pissed.

Simon slaps his palm lightly
against the table. "And we're done, unless you have something else,
Brother Cyrus?"

Saul shakes his head. "Shall
we rise for the
benedic
—
"

Most of them are halfway to their
feet when Prudence says, "What about your own report, Simon?"

Saul and Simon ignore her and
stand, while the others all drop back into their seats like someone snipped
their puppet strings.

Simon gives Pru a wide smile.
"Not much to say really. I don't have a specific assignment, other than a
few financial details. Kiernan will be keeping me company for those. And I'll
be keeping an eye on the bigger picture, monitoring overall developments.
Deciding when to launch."
Saul clears his throat and
Simon quickly adds, "After Brother Cyrus has examined everything and given
the go ahead.
Of course."

Saul raises his hands to begin the
Cyrist Creed and I join in with the others. The words roll off my tongue
naturally, seven short lines that a Cyrist child knows long before he can
recite the alphabet:

We choose the Way, so we are
the Blessed.

As we give to Cyrus, so shall
we
prosper.

We choose the way, so we may be
Chosen.

I catch a glimpse of Prudence out
of the corner of my eye as we finish the third line. She isn't joining in the
recitation. In fact, she's still seated, her elbows on the armrests with her
hands forming a tent in front of her. She stares down at the other end of the
table, and from this angle, I can't tell whether it's Saul or Simon getting the
evil eye.
Maybe both.
Her head is tilted a bit to the
side, like she's trying to piece together a puzzle, and even though she seems
more sane
today than she usually is at this age, it doesn't
look like the puzzle solution is coming easily to her.

As we reach the "wrath and
judgment" line in the Creed, Pru's eyes open a bit wider, like she's
surprised. She snarls—a feral sound, almost a growl—and rises part of the way
from her chair. I think for a moment she's going to charge straight down the
table like a wild beast and rip someone's face off, but then she sees the men
near the door, who've taken a protective step toward Saul's end of the table.
Pru hesitates,
then
drops back into her seat. A few
seconds later, she pulls up a location on her key and blinks out.

Although everyone at the table
sees Pru leave, no one mentions it. The regional Templars gather in a huddle
with Simon and Saul after we finish the Creed, while the others break off into
twos and threes. At least half those who were at the table today are more loyal
to Pru than they are to Saul and they keep glancing nervously at her empty
chair.

"Want me to take a look at
that, kiddo?"

June will probably call me
kiddo
when I'm old and gray, assuming both of us live that long. She's given me every
vaccination I've ever had, set my wrist when I tumbled out of the loft as a
kid, and—at least before I moved away—provided me with monthly contraceptive
pills to ensure no little
Kiernans
started following
me around before I was ready. I'm pretty sure she has the most impressive
house-call record of any doctor, ever, since she's tended to everyone living at
the Farm for about twelve decades.

June was by my mum's side when she
died last year, and made her as comfortable as she could. She's okay—well, as
okay as a Cyrist gets. And even though it's pretty obvious that she's Conwell's
daughter, the nose doesn't look as unfriendly on June as it does on some of the
others.

She lifts up the edge of the
bandage with one hand and makes a clucking noise. "Damn. Somebody whacked
you a good one. That needs a stitch or two.
Maybe
three."

I'm not too happy about her
sticking a needle in me, but I know she's probably right and she'll give me
hell if I argue. So I follow her down the hallway and outside to the small
clinic.

She starts the clucking sound
again when she takes off the bandage. "Why didn't you come here straight
off?" She twists her exam lamp around to get a better look. "There's
still glass…or gravel…or something in here."

"They took my key, June. Pru
said she was gonna send you, but Simon ended up coming instead."

"
Hmph
,"
she says, dabbing the area with something that smells foul. "If she knew
you were hurt, I don't know why she didn't mention it."

"She probably forgot. It
was…Older Pru."

It feels weird on so many levels
to call her that to June. Even Older Pru is nearly twenty years younger than
June. While Prudence didn't actually give birth to her, June has to be her
daughter. Aside from me and Conwell, and maybe Eve, all of the jumpers are
Pru's offspring. And June inherited the curls, although she says hers went gray
long before she hit thirty. Between med school and tending to the needs of
Cyrists for the past century, however, she's put a lot more years on her body.

I feel the prick of the needle and
clutch the edge of the table to brace myself.

"Older Pru.
Hmph
."
She sticks the needle in again. "That's another
thing. It should always be Older Pru that we're talking to. Why they tried to
sell this whole immortal and unchanging garbage is beyond me. People would
follow us without it. But there's no telling either one of them anything."

June lowers her voice, although I
don't think there's anyone else in the clinic. "She'll be lucky if she
remembers her name if they don't stop this nonsense. Even
our
brains
aren't designed to handle that many changes."

Like I said, June is okay, but
she's still Cyrist inner circle. Her tone of voice makes it pretty clear that
she considers
our brains
to be far superior to those run of the mill,
ordinary brains that can't connect with a CHRONOS key. Of course, it's what
she's been taught her entire life, and I doubt she's had much contact with
people outside her family and the other Cyrist followers who've lived on the
Farm over the years.

Two stitches later, June dabs the
wound with the antiseptic again.

"Do you know where she took
off to after the meeting?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No clue.
All she told me is to be here and that I'm supposed to be doing something with
Simon."

She snorts, pressing the bandage
to my head. "Well aren't you the lucky one. At least he should stay sober
this time. So, I'm guessing that other thing…that girl…is over?"

My body tenses up and she exhales,
shaking her head. "And from that reaction, I'm guessing she's the one who
left you, not the other way around. I know you were head over heels, kiddo, but
I just wish she'd have dumped you while your mom was still around. Knowing you
were
back here with us, where you belong, with the people
who care about you—that would have made it a lot easier for
Cliona
to let go."

"Don't want to talk about it,
June."

And I don't. From June's
perspective, and my mum's, Kate was just some girl I met in Boston, some brazen
hussy who lured an innocent boy away from the Farm. I think the only one here
who's aware of Kate's relation to Pru and Saul, aside from Pru and Saul, is
Simon.

I didn't have the heart to tell my
mum who Kate really was and why I was with her. It was bad enough telling her I
was leaving. I never quite got around to adding the part where I was leaving to
fight against the religion that was the only thing, aside from
me,
she'd cared anything about since my dad died. And once
she got sick, telling her wouldn't have served any purpose. It would just have
been cruel.

To June's credit, she doesn't give
me any crap about it, just shakes her head as she tosses the old bandage into
the rubbish bin. "I loved
Cliona
like a sister,
Kiernan. And I promised her I'd watch out for you, even though I knew it would
be tougher than hell to keep that promise with you away. It would be a whole
lot easier if you'd stick around here with the rest of us.
Or
at least pop in for a visit."

"Mum loved you too, June. But
you know it's tough for me…with the key."

She gives me an annoyed look.
"The time difference might be tough. Still, you know as well as I do that
the Farm's around in 1905.
Nothing tying you to Boston any
more, right?"

I don't answer, but just slide off
the table. "Thanks for patching me up."

"Glad to do it. If you need
me, you let me know. And maybe come back when your trip with Simon is over and
I'll make your mom's beef stew. My version isn't as good yet, but it gets a
little closer to Clio's every time I make it."

"Sounds good," I say,
turning back to give her a smile before I go out the door. "And I'll think
about what you said.
About coming back to the Farm."

Her answering smile is a sad one.
June has known me since I was seven. She can tell when I'm lying.

∞7∞

New
York City

July
24, 1929 – 2:35 p.m.

The Cyrist Union Bank of Manhattan
has a very nice lobby. After the past eight days, I can speak as an authority on
all things related to bank decor. The routine is always the same—some Cyrist
banker, usually overstuffed, claps Simon on the shoulder and they go into a
private office. Twenty minutes or so later, Simon comes out, usually smelling
of smoke, scotch, or both.

I wait outside like his faithful
hound.

Simon has a list of twenty-three
different coordinates we're assigned to visit, mostly banks, in preparation for
the next timeline adjustment.  This is our second jump to this particular
bank. Yesterday we visited the March 2008 version and I spent about an hour in
this same little alcove. It looked almost identical—dark polished wood and
marble everywhere. The chairs were less comfortable in 2008, however, and about
half of the people in the lobby had their eyes glued to cell phones.

And they had air-conditioning. The
bank doesn't seem to have sprung for that luxury in 1929. Everyone in the
building is regretting that fact today, since it's in the mid-nineties.

The 2008 jump to this particular
bank had the words
housing
and
gold
noted in the margin, but
here's no need for any notes on this jump. The year is 1929, and even Simon
knows its economic significance. Bankers and brokers will be leaping from
skyscraper windows in a few months, after the stock market plummets. People
will panic and decide to pull their money from banks and stash it beneath their
beds or inside their mattress. I don't blame them. I saw what the Panic of 1893
did to my parents. I don't trust any bank until they start putting those little
FDIC signs in their windows.

 We'd have been finished with
Simon's list several days ago if not for the fact that he distracts easy—all it
takes is a movie marquee, a steak, a strip club, a sports match, pretty much
anything that looks mildly amusing, and Simon is off.  Each time we strike
a bank or office from the list, Simon comes up with two or three things in that
city and year that he has to experience before we move on.

And I can't argue that we're on a
tight
schedule, that
we don't have time, because the
CHRONOS key means we always have the bloody time.  We could hang around
for a year at each of those twenty-three locations and still be back at Estero
at the appointed hour. We'd just be twenty-three years older.

Truthfully, I'm beginning to
suspect that's the main reason Simon wanted me here. He could've easily knocked
out these jumps in three days on his own. But having me tag along with my
"infirmity," as he calls it, gives him an excuse to hang around a
while and do what he wants to do—play.

More than a week of following him
around and I still don't have a clue what he knows about Kate. We've been to
London (twice), Frankfurt, Zurich, Tokyo, and now New York. The only thing I've
learned is that Simon can speak German and that he's built up a much greater
tolerance to alcohol in the past year. Before, if I wanted information out of
Simon, all I had to do was steer him toward a few pitchers of beer or, better
yet, a bottle of scotch. This last time we hit a
club,
Simon sucked down an entire bottle of whisky in one sitting and was still as
sober as a bloody judge.

That's when it occurred to me to
check his jacket pocket. Sure enough, he has one of June's pill bottles and I'm
betting the little blue capsules contain an alcohol blocker. I opened most of
them and dumped the better part of the powder into the toilet, keeping back two
full capsules for my own use. Unfortunately, the odds are still stacked against
getting him drunk on this jump, since we're smack in the middle of Prohibition.

I read through everything remotely
interesting in today's
Times
while I hang out in the lobby waiting for
Simon. The big news for July 24, 1929 is that the Kellogg-Briand Pact is
officially in effect, which means war is now illegal. A nice idea, but even
without a CHRONOS key, I could've told you it would never work. And in sports
news, Yankees are in town, facing off against the Detroit Tigers.

I've just turned the paper face
down so that Simon can't see the sports section, when he comes up from behind.
He thwacks me on the back of the head with something, and then drops it into my
lap.

It's a cigar, like the one that
he's clutching between his teeth.

"Cuban," he says, as he
heads for the revolving door.

I stick the cigar in my pocket,
and follow him outside. Grand Central Station is just across 42
^nd
Street, right where it was when I walked through this revolving door into 2008.
The only real change is that there's no eagle perched over the entrance and the
building looks kind of barren without the bird keeping watch.

We cross 42
^nd
Street
and start walking down Vanderbilt. Simon's business persona fades with each
step and I can tell that his mind is sorting through all of the possibilities
the city offers.

"You up for
a short hop?
I was thinking we could
skip to about seven, grab a steak, a couple of shows—and then head over to the
21 Club?"

"Only if we
sleep first.
It's been—" I shrug,
not quite sure how long it's been. Thirty hours, maybe more.

"Sleep?"
He gives me this look like I can't be serious,
then
shakes his head. "I don't believe you, man. You've
gotten to be such a
wuss
. Three months ago you did
like five jumps in one day—we met those girls in Paris? Remember?"

"No. I don't."

He's been doing this a lot—making
up crap that supposedly happened during the time he thinks my memory got
whacked. It's pathetic and annoying, but it does make me think Kate was right
about Simon being lonely. I'm probably the closest thing to a friend Simon's
ever had, although to be fair, he has a limited supply from which to choose,
since all the places he likes to hang out require friends who can use a CHRONOS
key.

Even leaving aside what he may or
may not know about Kate's disappearance, I'm short of sympathy for Simon right
now. I need a break. For every hour I've spent waiting in a lobby or outer
office this past week, I've spent three laughing at Simon's jokes and tagging
along while he plays time-tourist. If I have to do any more of that without
sleep, I'm going to snap and knock his head clean off his bloody neck.

"Sleep and a shower," I
say. "Then we can do whatever you want. We can even move on to the next
city on the list—it's DC, right?"

I don't remember the exact year of
the DC jump. I do remember it's after Prohibition, however, and that would suit
my purposes much better than being stuck here tonight.

Simon looks offended. "We're
in
New York
, Kier. I've got tickets for a show. We can even catch a game
if you want. The Yankees are playing."

"Sleep first. Otherwise, I'm
not going to be able to jump anywhere when you're ready to actually leave New
York."

Simon can be exhausting. I've seen
him keep going for well over two days, then collapse for seven or eight hours
of sleep, before bouncing back up. And that's if you keep him away from coffee.
He'll sit stock still for hours if there's something to occupy his
mind—something loud and blaring, like a computer game or an action movie. But
sit still and read a book? Or just look at the stars? I've known him since he
was nine and I've never seen that happen for more than five minutes straight.

Kate spent one marathon day of
tagging along with us, a month or so before Simon clued in to exactly who she
was and what she—what
we
—were up to.
Her conclusion?
"He's like the damn Energizer bunny."

The Roosevelt is four blocks down
and we make it to our suite without Simon getting distracted, except for the
knish vendor outside Grand Central.  I grabbed a couple of those, however,
so I can't really complain.

We stayed at the Roosevelt last time
we slept, too. It's a convenient location because the alcove near the main
staircase at the Roosevelt is a stable point after 1926. The hotel is still new
and luxurious in 1929, and our suite costs maybe twenty-five bucks. In 2008, it
was still nice, but slightly run down, and cost nearly four hundred dollars.

Fortunately, Simon seems to have
an unlimited bank account, because a suite is a necessity. If he drags another
girl back to the room tonight, it's bad enough that I'll have to listen to
them. I bloody well refuse to be in the same room.

I sprawl out across my bed fully
clothed and shut my eyes, thankful for the air-conditioning and a bit of
privacy.

The privacy lasts maybe two
minutes before Simon barges in. I feel the foot of the bed dip downward as he
plops on the edge.

"You're really going to
sleep?"

"Yes," I say, not
opening my eyes.

He's silent for a minute and then
says, "Have it your way. I'm gonna catch a movie and then we can—"

"Make it a double
feature."

Simon mutters a curse that has something
to do with my laziness, the likelihood that I had carnal relations with my
mother, and the marital status of my parents at the time of my birth. Then he's
gone, slamming the door behind him.

∞

New
York City

September
10, 1930 – 10:45 p.m.

The show, a musical revue called
Hot
Chocolates
, ended about an hour ago. I actually recognized one of the
stars, a guy named Louis Armstrong. Not from my time. Later in his career,
he'll sing this song called "What a Wonderful World," that Kate
likes, although I think it's a bit
before
her time. The dancing was too
frantic, but the music was nice, so I just closed my eyes and listened most of
the time.

One of the songs Armstrong sang
tonight, "
Ain't
Misbehavin
',"
is echoing through my head now as a giggly, thoroughly drunk redhead runs her
hand up and down my thigh.

It turns out that Prohibition
isn't quite the problem I'd imagined it would be.

We ended up having to make a short
time jump after the show because Simon had his dates wrong. The infamous Jack and
Charlie's at 21 West 52
^nd
was still the 42 Club over on 49
^th
Street until January of 1930, and Simon was determined it had to be the
real
21 Club.

I'm not sure why. The place looks
like an ordinary row house from the outside, except for the large iron gates at
the entrance. The doorman slid open a little window when he heard us
knock,
and Simon held something up for him to see. I thought
it was money at first, but it was some sort of token. After a second or two,
the door opened and we were in. Simon slipped the guy a couple of bills when we
were seated and I suspect it's no coincidence that the redhead and her friend
showed up a few minutes later.

The owners must have an
arrangement with bootleggers and, most likely, an arrangement with the police,
since liquor flows freely and it's not the cheap, homemade variety. Four rounds
later, the only one at the table who's sober is me, thanks to one of the little
blue pills I swiped from Simon earlier.

The redhead, whose name I didn't
catch, is saying something I can't make out over the music and the crowd. I'm
about to ask her to repeat it when Simon reaches across the table and yanks on
my sleeve, jerking his head toward the exit.

I disentangle myself from the
redhead, glad that we're leaving. But the girl follows me, so Simon must have
invited them to come along.

The one with Simon is named Elsie.
Her hat looks like a Roman helmet, with just a few blonde curls peeking out
beneath. While she isn't quite as drunk as the redhead, or as drunk as Simon
for that matter, she's way beyond tipsy. Once we're in the lobby where it's
quieter, she asks Simon where we're headed.

"The
Epicure.
It's next door, right?"

She seems reluctant.
"Yeah.
Tillie and
me've
been there
lotsa
times. It's okay, but this place is
nicer."

"Yeah," I say. "I
thought
this
was the place you wanted to go, Si."

"
Wanna
do both."

Simon and Elsie stumble out the
door and up the stairs to street level. Elsie totters slightly as her heels hit
the sidewalk and she has to clutch onto his arm to keep from falling. The
redhead, who must be Tillie, finds that extremely funny for some reason and
explodes into a fit of laughter, hanging onto the iron railing for support. By
the time I drag her up the stairs, Simon is knocking on the door of the
neighboring brownstone.

Once we're inside, I see what
Elsie means. It's a bit more run-down, just as smoky,
and
even noisier than the joint we just left. Simon orders a round of
drinks—something called Bee's Knees for the girls, which looks pretty much the
same as whatever this is he ordered for us. The cocktails are heavy on sugar,
probably to hide the fact that the gin—if it really
is
gin and not wood
alcohol—was brewed in someone's bathtub.